Broken Faith
by turquoise-kitsune
Summary: SLASH Lucius/Harry/Snape. Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived only to be betrayed by those he trusts the most. When the perfect skies of ones world shatter, there is only broken pieces and faithlessness. Implied non-con, Ron/Hermione/Weasley bashing.
1. Silence in Darkness

**Disclaimer : **Harry Potter along with the Harry Potter universe is owned by one billionaire: me is no JK Rowling.

**Warnings:** Implied rape, slash, OCC, Manipulative Dumbledore, Gryffindor-bashing, incest

**Pairings: **LMSSHP, TMROFC

**---**

Broken Faith

**Silence in Darkness**

Preface

From the cupboard he could hear the clock. It ticked softly, providing sound to the echoing silence of the darkness. Harry huddled into himself, burying his face into his knees, lying curled on the filthy blood covered floor. Strips of flesh hung from the boy, blood spilling from _everywhere._ The air filled with the pungent stench of sex, mixed with the tang of crimson, blood.

Rage, shame, horror, denial, betrayal, faithlessness.

16 years, 11 months, 30 days, 23 hours, 45 minutes, it had taken him to realize the truth. He meant nothing to them.

Gryffindors' Golden Boy: _where was his house now? _

Dumbledore's man: _where was the man he considered a grandfather?_

Leader of the Golden Trio:_ where were his best friends?_

The Wizarding Worlds Hero: _Some hero…_

The Boy Who Lived: _to only exist… _

Where were they now? They who claimed they loved and cared.  
Sleeping soundly, while he lay in darkness.

_Broken_

Harry's weak framed racked from a dry shuddering cough. Crimson flowed, pooling around the small shape, curling and blending into the rotting floorboards.

_Happy Birthday to me…_

Harsh laughter echoed through the darkness, and then….silence.

**---**

Yes, I know. Turquoise, you stupid loony, neglecting your other fanfics for a new one, don't you already have enough on your plate?

I'm sorry people I will update soon, but I couldn't resist this.


	2. The Boy in the cupboard

**Finally an update, thanks for all the support, alerts, reviews and faves.**

_They also say that we shouldn't stray too far from what we know.  
Of all people, I believe this more than anything.  
But sometimes boundaries are preordained to be broken._

Broken Faith

**The Boy in the cupboard**

_Chapter 1_

In the darkness the neatly manicured lawns and the bleached white picket fence seem even more eerie. A uniformity slides through the streets, where it is only right when it is the same. Fear of difference lingered in the darkest recesses of those living here. The lines of acceptable all too clearly defined and the thoughts of those who defined them, they keep the neighbours in line. Scandal was a sought of poison here. Toxic and consuming, filling the minds and speech of the nattering members of Privet Drive, Little Whinging.

Harry Potter was a secret, but a badly kept one and thus everyone knew about him. Scrawny and gangly as he was, there was a sense of complexity about him. That despite his size, his intelligent eyes had a sharp edge to them, making him seem like the psychopath Petunia Dursley ranted about. Weekly the woman of Privet Drive gathered, fishing for the gossip and scandal that would perhaps make their own dirty secrets a little less effable. Petunia Dursley was at her height in this situation. She has kept a fair amount of skeletons in her wardrobe, and today she hoped that the licentious behaviour of her frenemies and their families would be of more interest that the peculiar circumstances of her own household. When her nephew had left for his seventh year, she had hoped he would never come back. In a way she did care for him, but he would always be the child of a woman that she lived in the shadow of. Even now, rumours of her family life shrouded her. She somewhat cruelly hoped that he would die, in some quite corner where it would have no significance to her. And as he left the door swinging shut in his wake, she had breathed a sigh of relief. Petunia was now free of the obligations of her sister.

But then he returned. Scowling and petulant as ever, those green eyes, so much like _hers_, watching her accusingly. As a child she wanted to be special. But she couldn't be, she was never enough in her parent's eyes. Not when they had a daughter as extraordinary, as wonderful, as Lily. And as soon as this became obvious, Petunia strived. She was going to be normal. This was at least one thing she was sure her sister could never achieve. Normalcy was out of the reach of a _witch_. But even that wasn't possible for her, not with that boy around. She was torn, lost to obscurity when she wanted to be different and standing out in the worst ways when she only wanted to blend in.

Today's high tea was a particular cathartic release. Much to her delight, the mystery around her nephew was left unaddressed, instead they gossiped about Mrs. Morris from number 12. A small mousey woman filing for a divorce after discovering the unthinkable, her husband not only cheating on her, but doing so with a man. Petunia sneered. Homosexuality was just as unnatural as her sister's abilities. Petunia revelled in the juicy titbit, stirring up rumours that would stain the family. But as she did so, vowed that nothing of the kind would ever hurt the reputation of her own family. She uncurled her legs and rolled over, facing Vernon's side of the bed. The sheets were curiously cool, and the mass of her husband absent from bed. She reached out to caress the indentation in the mattress that indicated where he once lay, fingers prodding into the downy feathers of his pillow, where stray hairs lingered, silvery gray in the moonlight. Petunia watched the moon from the open window with wide unfocused eyes, curtains fluttering in a soft breeze, the sounds below her lost amongst the creaks of the house. Suddenly she felt a rage towards the boy, the reason for her husband's absence. Her Dudders had grown up and moved away, but he was still here, muttering nonsense about _them_. Petunia had let him stay of course, what could she do? The old man who had visited them two years previous had made it clear that Harry must always be welcome in her house. But she just assumed after he turned seventeen and that Voldevort man was dead, he would go away. Vernon was very decisive about it, of course, she thought fondly. Vernon was a good man, always wanting to protect her, he understood the need for the ordinary.

The boy's things were immediately locked away, including that stick of his. He wasn't safe with that stick around. She had told him so, sick of the unnaturalness that plagued her home. And he was left to do as he pleased as long as he did his chores and kept out of their way. Then of course the little snot had the audacity to indulge in vile acts in full view of the neighbourhood. _Kissing boys_ no less. Had he no sense of propriety? What if the neighbours had seen? It would tarnish her reputation with the woman of Privet Drive. It had been her luck that no one else had seen it. Vernon very quietly shut the boy up, and dragged her nephew home. He was going to stay in that closet till he stopped with his disgusting behaviour. Even without his stick he was filling Petunia's home with vile thoughts and desires. She couldn't beat the magic out of him, but she was doing to starve the homosexuality, the unnaturalness out of him. But the boy was stubborn. Even weeks of hunger, with only water and the occasional stale slice of bread and he refused to concede, the brat, going on and on about how he was born that way. Vernon was just as sick of it as she was, and he swore he was going to shut that boy up one way or another. Vernon was down there dealing with the boy right now. The creaks and moans stopped suddenly and the house was doused in silence. Moments later the stairs shook, almost buckling under the bulk of Vernon Dursley.

"Vernon..?" Petunia whispered into the darkness as a shape appeared in her doorway. A gruff noise of agreement sounded, and Petunia relaxed into her pillow, watching the form of her husband. The moonlight caught on him, light rounding the edges of his pudge with moved with him.

"Petunia," He approached her, into bed and then bearing his weight down onto her. She gasped at the familiar sensation, and reached up one hand to touch the roundness of his face, the other trailing down the gap between their bodies, along the warmth of his chest. Wetness blossomed on her fingertips, caught from his shirt. Not the heady smell of sweat, but a much fainter metallic scent that filled her nostrils. His hands slipped up her nightie, and the nakedness of his lower half, which she had not felt earlier, pushed into her. Petunia breaths out, hands grasping his face as she moved with him, wet fingers leaving smears on his face that shone with blood redness in the moonlight.

**o o o**

In the cupboard under the stairs, Harry awoke for once with a feeling of numbness. For so many days he had lain here curled on his childhood bed, legs complaining from the distinct lack of space, stomach complaining from a lack of food, and the survival instinct that was invaluable to him in the past whispering for him to just give in. For him to just renounce his homosexuality and be let out again, at least long enough for him to snatch his wand, and disappear into the night. But he was proving a point, or that's how he justified it in his mind. The days he had lain there silently had comforted him, cocooned in his weak blankets, the closed space protecting him from the world outside. In some ways he did not mind the hunger that much, just relishing in his self imposed isolation, where he could at least shake that feeling of betrayal that had haunted him since Voldemort's death.

Merely days after his victory the elders within the Order had shipped him back to the Dursleys. Never mind that he was seventeen now and could technically do as he pleased. He was stripped of his wand upon entering number four Privet Drive, and pushed back into Dudley's spare room. A variation of the underage trace had been put on him, to preserve his 'safely'. After all killing a Dark Lord clearly rendered Harry an invalid and incapable of defending himself from any rogue Death Eaters. His magical possessions were locked away and for the most part he was left to do as he pleased. Coming and going as he liked as long as his chores were completed. Spending the late summer evenings wandering the quiet streets of Little Whinging, he was consumed by bitterness at all the people he once held so dear.

Mrs Weasley, who had once been his most zealous advocator when it came to the Dursleys, simply forgot about him, only actually talking to him and for the most part talking at him when it was about the wedding she craved so desperately for Ginny and Harry. Harry had not realized that he was getting married to Ginny, having not asked Ginny to marry him or even getting back together with him. But Ginny had taken the first occasion of eye contact after the war as an offer, and soon everyone was congratulating him, not at all commenting on the absence of a ring on Ginny's finger. Ron had been the first to clap him on the back with brotherly affection before being distracted by Hermione so much that neither of them actually noticed Harry's presence anymore. The little time he did spend with them, he sat there quietly while they stared longingly into each other's eyes and then kissing long and slow as Harry let himself out.

He hadn't been all that close to the other Weasley's, except for Fred and George. But since Fred's death George had pulled into himself, spending most of his time at the shop, and the remaining almost completely silent when he was around. The absence of the twin's joking company made Harry feel worse. Embittered at the fact no one seemed all too concerned about him anymore, and on his long walks he would stew in his anger, the same insecurities running circles in his mind. That was how he met Simon.

Simon was tall, ridiculously so, practically towering over Harry. But his soft cornflower coloured hair and easy smile soothed something in Harry. He wasn't in love, Harry wasn't that naïve. However there was just something special about Simon. Harry was swinging absently on the a swing set just too small for him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed and glimmering with angry tears, when a rough clap to the shoulder toppled him out of the swing. Glancing back he saw Simon, grinning, not maliciously, but carefree and harmless. He helped Harry up, and surprised him with a hug. Harry closed his eyes and fell into the warm embrace of his new friend. Their time spent together was a conversation of touches and lingering looks. No words were needed to explain the feelings shared between them, a sense of kinship. They had known each other for a week when uncle Vernon had caught them. It was the first time Harry had ever kissed a boy. Uncle Vernon locked him in his old cupboard, face puce with rage and a strange look in his eyes. Harry then cried for the first time since the death of Voldemort. Not for Simon, he knew nothing about Simon apart from his name. But for the loss of a friend, the only person he had left, even if that person was a stranger. His first crush.

Aunt Petunia was furious when she heard, not only was he magical but a homosexual, which in her book was just as bad. She refused to feed him, perhaps she thought starvation would stop these new desires, but it was like a floodgate had opened inside his mind. His sexuality was emerging in a new way, and inside his cupboard he came to terms with it. Once every few days, he would be given a jug of water and bread, each time served by Uncle Vernon who barely fit into the closet, and each time eyed Harry with a queer look in his eye. Then one night, he understood.

His malnutrition body was unable to fight back against his uncle, who was at least twice Harry's size even when Harry was healthy. Harry was dragged off the bed, a silver roll of duct tape clutched in his uncle's meaty hands. The tape bound Harry's wrists together and to a bedpost, a sock shoved unceremoniously into his mouth, his yelp of panic and terror muffled by the sweaty cotton. Harry fought, his legs lashing out, body half in, half out of the cupboard. Uncle Vernon disappeared and reappeared with a camera which he set up with relish, positioning to face his bound nephew. Harry experienced a growing feeling of dread that consumed him, suffocating him, and turning his body cold with fear as he met his uncle's hungry eyes and watched meaty fingers unzip a fly.

Aunt Petunia walks past them, unseeing and unhearing, despite half her husband is visible through the doorway of the cupboard under the stairs and the creaks and moans that fill the house. She pats Vernon, and he turns to her,

"Just teaching the boy a lesson, Petunia," She smiles, her eyes vacant. She doesn't him, and he doesn't see her. Tears leak from Harry's bloodshot eyes.

There is no pain when Harry awakes and there is no light. That feeling of numbness fills his bones and the crevasses of his mind. There is a pressure in his knees where his legs are pressed haphazardly against the closed cupboard door, but he is in no hurry to move them. His head lolls back, and a smile cuts across his face. The air filled with the pungent stench of sex and the faint scent of blood. Harry's lower half is uncovered, all manner of bodily fluid coating the cold wooden floor. His body feels broken, bruised; his body does not feel like his own. He could hear the clock ticking from the hall way outside, beating in rhythm with his own heart beats. He longs for a moment for his heart to stop, the pounding rush of blood makes his head throb and his vision fill with bright light. He wondered for a moment where were all those who claimed they cared. His mentors, his friends, Ron, Hermione…

They had not even invited him to spend time in the burrow with them these holidays. When he left they both hugged him, half hearted before turning back to each other. As he let himself out of their life. He had no longer any intention of returning to the Burrow or even Hogwarts, at least not with this dirt that coated his body from the inside. Harry's weak framed racked from a dry shuddering cough, and blood flowed from him, curling around his weak frame. He no longer felt tears in his eyes, nor any other emotion. Just a blank bleak emptiness and the comfort of the four walls around him.

**Review?**


	3. The Boy on the Train

**Another update! Sooner than the last one. Thanks to all those reviewers who guilt tripped me into writing more. **

Broken Faith

**The Boy on a Train**

_Chapter 2_

The end of August comes close as the air turns crisp and chill, and Harry once again becomes acquainted with the outside world. The first time he feels natural light against the pallor of his neglected frame he is filled with both a longing and disgust. The warm yellow rays only feel cold to his skin, and he feels dirtied by their purity.

He feels confused with the world around him. Infused with a childlike curiosity by things he had never considered before and this dark growing cynicism that curled around his soul. The hollow walls of Number 4 Privet Drive crowd his soul, for the last few hours in which he remains in them.

He was let out with finality early on the first cool September morning. Harry was shown to the locked cabinet that contained his wizarding possessions, and given an hour to collect his things before a taxi arrived. All Hogwarts students that had lost years of their education due to the war were called back to attend Hogwarts on the first to discuss the possibilities for their future. Harry was tempted not to attend, but felt a compulsion to just for once do as he was told. Filled with apathy, he gathered together the belongings that once caused emotion within him, and weakly questioned why he was bound by such material objects. Their value seemed nil retrospectively to the pain he endured.

Harry placed them, the Marauders Map, The invisibility cloak, Sirius's cracked mirror; at the very bottom of his trunk sheathing them with his first ever pair of robes. Small in size and worn from years of use and then years of disuse, he had kept it as a keepsake, something anointed with the memories he treasured. But now, now it just seemed as useless as everything else. Pulling separate the leather pouch Hagrid had given him what seemed by eons ago, he tipped its contents haphazard into the trunk and slid singularly his wand into it. Harry knotted the string and slid the pouch around his neck so it rested in the hollow of his chest, hidden beneath his shirt. He slammed the lid of the trunk down and dragged it across the hallway and into the doorway, and he stood on the threshold of his escape and glanced back awkwardly.

Petunia looked stoic, determinedly ignoring him as she partook in her ritualized cleaning. She looked relived as she applied the cleaning product to a dark red stain on the wallpaper across from the cupboard, scrubbing vigorously as more and more the crease that long indented her forehead relaxed. From across where she worked, Vernon sat, a man, godlike in his own home, the epitome of dominance. Dudley wasn't home. Vernon had breakfast set before him, a lavish spread of bacon, eggs, toast and beans, the morning newspaper placed purposely open on his left as though he was reading it. His teacup was clasped firmly within his pudgy fingers, halfway raised towards his mouth as though he was mid-sip, but it had long gone cold hanging in the air. Vernon sat with his body angled towards the window, looking for all he was worth, the prideful patriarch of a family. But his dark watery eyes followed Harry's movements. Pupils dilated with a sort of hunger that food would not gratify, an unsatisfiable hunger. Noticing the gaze Harry couldn't repress chills that raced up his spine and racked his small frame with shivers, and just hoped no one saw his moment of private weakness. But the miniscule widening of Vernon's dark pupils gave him away. Harry turns his head down, unable to face the inadequacies that were glaring at him. He hunched over at the doorframe, silently praying for the taxi to appear, soon, before Vernon changed his mind.

He waited, feeling the weight of the gaze behind him, silently watching Vernon in his minds' eye. Listening intently as Vernon placed his cup of tea down on the table, indicated by the gentle clink of fine china on wood. Harry hears the rustling newspaper that Vernon has moved to the side and the screech of the chair being pushed back, and then Harry is moving, away from the doorway and down the footpath, and onto the street. His trunk scraps against the concrete of the lane as he struggles along, the bulk of the heavy trunk causing Harry's emancipated frame to sway dangerously. His gaze flashes past the conforming, manicured lawns, like a green blanket of normalness that was surrounding him, suffocating him. His body finally gives out at the end of the street, and he slumps, his head lolling back. He looks back, eyes tracing the path of his hasty departure. His vision was weak and blurry, but he could just make out the elegant number 4 signifying his former home and the hulking mass that stood below it, just watching. Forcing himself to his feet, Harry patiently makes his way down the winding streets of the suburbs, unsure of how exactly he plans on getting to Kings Cross.

Then, he is hauled out of his distracted state by a shove, and he is pressed into the wall, staring up into the vicious eyes of Antonin Dolohov. The death eater's face is carved into a cruel sneer, wand pressed sharply beneath Harry's chin, against his jugular. Dolohov's thin cracked lips part, but before he can form the words, his grip slackens and he slips down Harry's form into a crumpled heap. Harry gawks as his vision is filled with a grinning visage and a shock of bright red hair.

"Harry, mate!" George hollers, as he aims a kick at Dolohov's frozen figure.

"Come on then Harry, train's leaving in half an hour, the Order'll deal with this mess," he said, casting a patronus. Harry watches, stunned, still shaken from the attack and the impromptu rescue.

George slung his arm over Harry's shoulders, leading him down the road to a waiting taxi, dragging Harry's trunk behind him. Harry squirms within the friendly half-hug until George lets go, looking at him strangely, but never the less loading Harry's trunk, and ushering him into the taxi and then getting in on the other side.

"Kings cross mate," George tells the driver before turning to Harry with an easy smile,

"Good thing I decided to follow you, eh Harry?" Harry agreed noncommittally as George carried on,

"After Dung's screw up in your fifth year, we couldn't let you be wandering about, especially today. Every rogue Death Eater in this half of the country are chasing after your blood. Ron said you'd be alright, what after killing ol' Moldy-pants, but Ronniekins isn't the sharpest tool, and without Fred, I thought it'd be best if I were out here, just as a precaution." George peered then, seriously into Harry's eyes,

"I owe you mate, so if you ever need anything…" He trailed off, but Harry understood the sentiment. The now singular twin ruffled Harry's already messy head, and this time Harry did not jerk away, but instead leaned into the gentle touch. George withdrew his hand, and they spent the rest of the ride in a comfortable silence.

**000**

The ride to Hogwarts itself, upon the Hogwarts express was equally as silent however aching quality of the lack of sound made Harry's head hurt. He was sitting at the very last cabin on the train, a smaller, rickety looking one that most of the other student's avoided. He was counting on this fact.

They had entered the station during the busiest part of the first day of Hogwarts. All the students, a larger quantity than previous years, both those who were attending officially, and those like him, attending only to see his head of house were hurrying across the small platform. Harry was jostled into the crowd, George's firm grip on his shoulder. Together they stumbled closer to the train where the crowd thinned and they paused, looking at each other. George was gazing worriedly over Harry, his eyes looking pained. Harry unsure what exactly to do, reached out, resting his hand on George's. He looked so relieved at the touch Harry had initiated, his face softening to a look of fondness, before he closed Harry tender hug.

"Remember mate, if you ever need anything..."

Harry blinked the memory from beneath his eyelids and turned his gaze towards the half open train window. Chin resting against a closed fist at the window sill, the cold air whipped his air, turning the very tip of his nose and cheeks a rosy pink hue. He was impressed at himself and the skilful navigation it took to transfer him from George's embrace to the most isolated cabin on the Hogwarts Express while avoiding detection.

There was a scuffle outside the glass siding door that separated him from the rest of the world, and once he may have been curious enough to investigate the raised voices, but today his head slips lower and he allows his eyes to unfocus, absently tracing the vibrant magenta path of the setting sun. Harry lets the sounds of the world wash over him.

Another first for the changed Harry was the first time he set eyes upon his friends. All former and present student and faculty are invited to the Welcoming Feast that day. The bustling and cheerful atmosphere was only magnified by the sheer amount of people, their raised voices combining to form a disorientating noise, much louder than Harry remembered. But he was grateful for the ability to lose himself inside the consuming crowd.

Like any other year house tables were neatly lined, though people mingled, separating from their packs to wander into other territory. Only the Slytherins seemed adamant in their placing, moving only for the most cunning Ravenclaws, but no other house. Harry, when entering the Great Hall with the masses had stood awkwardly before the Gryffindor table, only to deviate slightly left to the Hufflepuff table, where he was soon lost amongst the various misfits. From this vantage point he saw that flash of red hair and freckles that were unique to the Weasley's. Naturally Ginny and Ron were accompanied by a sleek haired Hermione, who looked nothing like the bookish bushy haired know it all he used to love. Her lips plumped with red rogue looked strange and shiny as they formed the words she uttered to Ginny who was likewise adorned. He looked away as they made a beeline for the Gryffindor table, the sea of red and gold separating for them as though they were royalty. Seated like holding court, he watched them interact, happily, and he knew he was no longer part of them. Harry felt his eyes sting, as they did not once gaze around, hoping to catch a glance of him, and he lowered his face, staring back at the burnished reflection of him in the cutlery.

McGonagall began the feast from the chair centre to the staff table, her stiff and imposing figure not quite filling the space of the headmaster's chair that looked empty without the boisterous, twinkling presence of Albus Dumbledore. The platters filled, and Harry served himself half heartedly. His plate full, but he only nibbled at a bread roll his stomach revolting at the complex string of scents.

A very gentle pat to his shoulder startled him, and the roll he had barely taken a bite of fell from his fork and onto the polished floor. He looked up, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, only to relax when he recognised the airy smile of one Luna Lovegood. She gestured for him to shift over and settled in next to him, their hips pressed side by side, but the touch felt comforting, Luna's calm presence like a breath of fresh air. He smiled at her and she ate her food daintily, quirking her head as she savoured the flavours, her hair rippling with her motions, causing Harry to regard her like a peculiar bird. However her intelligent and piercing stare held his own, until feeling like a chastised child, he took a bite of his chicken, to feel the gaze soften. He felt the apathy in his heart lighten, and he ate more, exchanging looks filled with meaning and emotion with his friend that did not need words to convey.

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